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circumstance of dressing up, dressing her boys up, having breakfast out, the ritual and order of worship—my father never generated much interest in the notion until later in life. It was my understanding that he felt church was more for those who needed forgiveness, much like a shower was for those who were dirty. If you were somewhat clean—physically and spiritually—you were good to go.
    My father also frequently had to work on Saturdays, thus leaving only Sunday mornings open to enjoy a big breakfast, work inthe yard, and complete projects around the house before watching pro football. Church was another commitment—another meeting, if you will—to which he just didn’t want to commit.
    My dad grew up going to church every Sunday, if not more. His father was a deacon in a local church and a much beloved member of a nearby small-town community. My grandfather loved to go to church, put on his suit, and talk with the townsfolk. It was an extension of his job, and one he relished. While my father loved and respected his dad greatly, I think—as most of us do as adults—he simply enjoyed a bit of distance, to walk outside of the shadow his father had created.
    My father was also an engineer with, though it was never formally diagnosed, what I would term today as ADD. He used to become distracted and irritable in church, like a petulant child.
    In fact, my father and I were similar in this way, though polar opposites in our obsessions. Whereas I would become riveted by women’s dresses that would flare dramatically as they sashayed down the aisle or by a beautiful bonnet (I always believed the world was an “Oh, I could write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet!” away from turning into a nonstop musical), my father was distracted by the noisiness of the church’s HVAC system, or whether the trusses supporting the soaring roof and steeple were structurally sound. Whenever we would begin to fade away, forget to stand or open our hymnal, my mother would often whisper our names—“James Wade!” or “Ted! Pay attention!”—in a way that sounded like sheets drying on a clothesline in a harsh spring wind. We would snap to attention for a few minutes before I would again catch a glimpse of a pretty orchid and my father would notice a gap in a window frame.
    It was after one of our Ash Wednesday tire fires, perhaps our third in a row, that my father finally seemed to realize, as the white-bread Rouses jammed into an IHOP, that his family looked just like the one on
Good Times
.
    As my mom excused herself to the bathroom and my brother crammed a mile-high stack of Belgian waffles and whipped cream into his mouth, that’s when I decided to test my theory.
    â€œHe’s doing it on purpose,” I said, wiping my face clean. “ ’Cause we don’t go enough.”
    His eyes twinkled. “That’s an interesting theory,” he said.
    My father loved theories. He loved to test them. It’s what his career in engineering was all about.
    Which is why my dad announced, as we yanked the foil off our TV dinners the next week, my corn embedded in my apple brown Betty, that he had invited the preacher over for dinner the following Tuesday.
    As my mother aspirated a kernel, my father winked at me.
    Our preacher, a middle-aged man with hair that looked as if it had been made from modeling clay, arrived on a cold February night, carrying a Bible and a long box I know my dad hoped was wine.
    â€œWhat have we here, Minister?” my dad asked, before pulling out a pillar candle we all instantly knew he had simply “borrowed” from the church.
    â€œJust a little gift,” the minister said. “A token of appreciation. I have to admit, I was just so surprised to receive this dinner invitation from … you know … the
Rouses
. I see you so … 
infrequently
 … Easter, Christmas, Ash